Here’s the thing: Every movement in Tai Chi is part of a circle, either clockwise or anti-clockwise, and sometimes parts of the Tai Chi yin/yang diagram (like a figure eight infinity symbol), but they are always circular, even the moves that look linear on the surface. If it looks linear it’s because the circle has become so small as to be invisible (or at least that should be the reason).
I find that to really understand this you need to go through the whole form until you understand how each movement is circular, and how to generate that circle from your feet, legs and middle, not the arms. Of course, that’s easier said than done!
Go through each movement of the form and break down how it is composed of circles and learn how to generate them from the turn of the middle of the body, using the legs to help, and not from the shoulders.
Where the circle begins
The important thing is not to draw imaginary circles with your hands. That is just arm waving.
The real work is to feel where the circle begins. Does it start in the shoulder, or does it come up from the foot, through the leg, into the middle of the body, and only then express itself through the arm?
That is the difference between making a circular shape and moving in a circular way.
So, when you practice, pick one movement and ask yourself: where is the circle? Is it turning horizontally, vertically, diagonally, or through the body like a spiral? Can you make it bigger? Can you make it smaller? Can you still feel it when it becomes almost invisible?
Over time, this changes how the form feels. The postures stop being separate positions joined together by transitions. They become circles turning into circles, opening and closing, rising and sinking, appearing and disappearing.
And that, really, is Tai Chi: not a sequence of poses, but a body learning how to move without corners.
Competitive tai chi is growing fast around the world — but not everyone in the traditional community is happy about what that means
There’s a version of tai chi that most people think they know. It happens slowly in parks. It’s mostly associated with retirees, stress reduction, gentle movement, and the occasional vague mention of “energy”. In the Western imagination, tai chi often exists somewhere between meditation, physiotherapy and soft exercise.
But another version of tai chi has also been growing in parallel. One involving national teams, international judges, choreographed routines, competition scoring systems, and athletes performing explosive movements in brightly lit arenas. And it’s getting big.
The recent World Taijiquan Championships in Bulgaria drew competitors from more than 40 countries, with hundreds of athletes taking part in solo forms, weapon routines although I didn’t see any evidence of push hands events, or anything approaching sparring. For many outsiders, the sheer scale of the competition may come as a surprise. But for people inside the martial arts world, it highlights something that’s been developing for years: tai chi is splitting into several very different cultures.
Take a look:
One culture sees tai chi primarily as an internal martial art rooted in body mechanics, structure, pressure, balance and cultivated force. Another treats it as a performance discipline, one judged visually, packaged for audiences, and optimised for competition. Another sees it as the aforementioned health version done by older people in parks as a kind of meditatve exercise.
That tension between these different versions of taijiquan has existed for a long time, but events like the World Taijiquan Championships make it impossible to ignore.
When tai chi becomes a spectator sport
Competitive tai chi performance changes things. The moment movements are judged publicly, practitioners begin optimising for what judges and audiences can easily see. Stances become lower. Movements become larger. Expressions become sharper and more theatrical. Routines drift toward athletic spectacle.
That doesn’t automatically make them bad, but you’ll notice that the event also seemed to incorporate dance troupes, cheerleaders and gymnasts.
The fact is, competitive athletes are phenomenally skilled. The flexibility, balance, coordination and body control required at elite level are extraordinary. Some modern taiji competitors move with a degree of precision that most traditional practitioners could only dream of.
But critics argue that something important can get lost in the process.
Traditional tai chi training often focuses on subtle internal qualities that don’t necessarily look impressive from the outside: relaxation under pressure, whole-body connection, efficient force transfer, breath regulation, sensitivity, and structural integrity. Those things are difficult to score visually. A judge can easily reward height, speed and extension. It’s much harder to reward sung — the relaxed but connected quality that many internal stylists consider central to the art.
This is where the divide starts because it leads to the question, “is this still tai chi?” And then to the almost inevitable, “what is tai chi anyway?”
The gymnastics problem
The problem isn’t unique to tai chi. Almost every martial art changes when competition becomes the dominant measuring stick. Brazilian jiu-jitsu drifted toward increasingly sport-specific positions once tournaments became central to the culture. Judo changed dramatically after leg grabs were restricted. Olympic taekwondo evolved into something many traditional practitioners barely recognize.
The tai chi world is fractured, but for some this can be positive. Competitive formats bring structure, international exposure, younger athletes and a clearer pathway for progression. Without competition, tai chi risks becoming culturally invisible outside wellness circles.
But others worry the art slowly transforms into a kind of martial gymnastics — technically difficult, visually impressive, but increasingly detached from the body method and martial function that originally gave the movements meaning.
The tai chi world is made even more complicated by the fact that as well as the wushu performers, and the traditionalists, there’s another group — the martial artists who want to use tai chi as a real martial art.
You might imagine they’d be naturally aligned with the traditionalists, however, in my experience the traditionalists hate any attempt to put on gloves and ‘prove tai chi works’ and refer to it as ‘just kickboxing’.
The irony is that all three, or even four, sides often genuinely love tai chi. They just value different things.
The global expansion of tai chi
What the World Taijiquan Championships really demonstrate is that tai chi is no longer a niche cultural practice confined to China or small traditional schools.
Competitors are emerging from Europe, South America, Southeast Asia, the Middle East and the United States. Universities teach it. Health systems study it. Sports organizations organize around it. Younger athletes are entering through competition pathways rather than traditional lineage structures.
That changes the art whether people want it to or not.
Why struggling to remember tai chi moves might be exactly what your brain needs
I’ve been running tai chi classes for years now, and the number one thing beginners say to me is always some variation of: “I didn’t think it would be this hard to remember the moves!” It’s usually coupled with a look of astonishment.
I mean, tai chi looks pretty simple, right? Older people do it, for goodness’ sake, so it must be pretty simple. Why is it so hard to remember the moves?
I’m only talking about learning the choreography of the form here, not even trying to delve into the principles that make the choreography ‘internal’ movement, like moving from the dantien.
The instructions for learning choreography are pretty simple. They’re things like: “Shift your weight to your left foot, pivot to your right and raise your toes, then transfer your weight to your right leg, raise the right arm, and lower the left arm.”
You even have somebody to follow along with to make it easier.
But after a few follow-alongs, when I turn around and say, “Now you do it,” there’s an immediate crisis and it all falls apart. That look of astonishment appears, and the question comes again:
“Why is it so hard?”
I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we don’t routinely do things that require us to use our brains to memorize movements while performing them. Perhaps learning to drive comes close.
I’d say learning a tai chi form is more of a mental workout than a physical one. It’s mentally very tiring. You can feel the effort people have to make to learn the sequence. It’s hard work, but you don’t need to be particularly mobile or fit to perform the movements.
In terms of tai chi as a health exercise, I wonder if the mental workout is perhaps the most beneficial part of the process. Studies into dementia have shown that changes in the brain start happening years before symptoms emerge, and changing your daily habits so that you actively use your brain is one of the things you can do to slow down, or even reverse, the process — if you catch it early.
But it is a physical workout — done right, Tai chi will make your thighs ache. In a good way.
I was listening to a podcast (from 54:20 onwards) the other day that emphasized how important strong legs are to your overall physical health, especially for preventing dementia. With tai chi, every day is leg day, so we’ve got that covered.
“Your legs protect your memory” was a phrase used in the podcast. It was said by a doctor, but I never know how much weight to give podcast advice. That said, the number one reason older people end up in the emergency room is falls. What prevents falls? Leg strength. Studies also suggest leg strength may help the brain more directly.
It’s certainly true that as we age, our legs get thinner, leading to the Chinese phrase “you die from the feet up.” And tai chi does help with leg strength.
Physical exercise is important for dementia prevention, and so is a brain workout. With tai chi, you get both — a mental workout combined with physical exercise.
And that might also be why it’s so hard, but that might also be the real benefit.
That frustration — forgetting what comes next, getting lost halfway through, having to piece it back together — is the process.
You’re asking your brain to do something unfamiliar, to coordinate thought and movement in real time, to hold focus for longer than it’s used to.
So when someone asks me why it’s so hard, the honest answer is:
Because if it were easy, it probably wouldn’t be doing you nearly as much good.
The debate over leaning vs upright posture may have less to do with force and more to do with identity
Sun Lu Tang performing tai chi
Does your tai chi style lean forward or stay upright? The debate over which is “correct” has been raging for decades now. Well, maybe “raging” isn’t quite the right word for a group of tai chi practitioners, but at the very least there’s been some polite disagreement.
The usual way of looking at this issue is biomechanical. Which structure delivers force—jin—more efficiently? Which alignment is stronger, more stable, more effective?
But what if we’ve been looking at this the wrong way?
What if the difference isn’t really about efficiency at all, but about who the posture was for?
I’ve just been watching a lecture by Sander L. Gilman called Stand up Straight! Cultural Perspectives on Posture, and it adds an angle to this debate that feels like it’s been missing.
Gilman’s core idea is simple, but powerful: the body isn’t just biological—it’s cultural. The way we stand, move, and hold ourselves isn’t neutral. It’s shaped by what society thinks is healthy, respectable, or even fully human.
Historically, posture has been loaded with meaning. Standing upright has been associated with discipline, control, and refinement. Slouching, or anything that deviates from that ideal, has often been framed as a lack of those qualities.
Crucially, those ideas have often been tied to class.
In one example Gilman highlights, early 20th-century medical writing didn’t just describe posture, it judged it. Working-class bodies and rural populations were sometimes compared unfavorably to “primitive” forms, while upright posture was framed as something closer to a civilized ideal. (source).
Strip that down, and you get a striking idea: “respectability” is something performed through the body. Posture becomes part of that performance.
So what happens if we apply that lens to tai chi?
Most histories trace tai chi back to Chen Village in Henan province, but its spread through Beijing brought it into very different social contexts. Some styles developed in courtly or intellectual circles, others among martial artists, soldiers, and working practitioners. And when you look at the postures, a pattern starts to emerge.
Styles associated with more scholarly or “refined” figures, like Wu (Hao) style or Sun style, developed by the famously intellectual Sun Lutang, tend to emphasise a more upright frame.
By contrast, versions of Yang style and Wu style, shaped by professional martial artists and military figures, often include a noticeable forward lean.
Of course, these systems evolved over time and weren’t defined purely by class. But the contrast is hard to ignore.
Even Cheng Man-Ch’ing, often described as a scholar and artist as much as a martial artist, modified what he learned from Yang Chengfu into a distinctly upright form. His idea of the “five excellences” — calligraphy, painting, poetry, tai chi, and medicine — paints a clear picture of the kind of cultivated identity he was expressing.
Seen through Gilman’s lens, this looks like a cultural divergence, rather than one based on pure technique.
Maybe upright posture isn’t just about alignment. It’s about signaling control, refinement, and education. And maybe the forward-leaning versions reflect a different set of priorities: function, application, and practicality over presentation.
Every year, a BJJ celeb sounds off about how the gi* is dying and no-gi is the future. And yet, the death of the gi never actually happens — and I don’t think it ever will.
While the pro scene screams “no-gi future,” the average BJJ practitioner is still tying their belt every night. Here’s why.
If you only watch professional BJJ, you’d be forgiven for thinking the gi is already dead. But it’s a mistake to confuse what we watch with what we actually do.
Take my own academy as an example: we run roughly twice as many gi classes as no-gi. That’s driven by demand, not coach preference. Not every gym is the same, but I don’t think this is unusual — at least not in the UK.
Last year I went to Camp Eryri, a BJJ training weekend in North Wales. There were workshops in both gi and no-gi, but when it came to open rolling, most people chose to train in the gi. The majority of workshops leaned that way too.
Sure, no-gi dominates pro events, streaming, and social media clips. But the gi still dominates hobbyist practice, traditional gyms, and the belt progression culture that keeps people coming back. So why is that?
Why no-gi looks like the future
You often hear that the gi is boring to watch, but I don’t think that holds up. When a gi match appears on a Polaris card, it’s often one of the most engaging fights of the night.
And no-gi isn’t immune to the same problems. Matches can devolve into long stretches of unproductive stand-up, followed by a last-minute scramble or leg lock exchange that feels more like a coin flip than a conclusion.
Let’s be honest: no-gi dominates the pro scene partly because it looks better—more athletic, more modern, more like MMA. Tight rashguards, visible physiques, more tattoos, faster scrambles—it’s easier to sell and easier to package.
With fewer grips, it’s also theoretically easier for casual viewers to understand. There are also supposed to be fewer opportunities to stall—again, in theory. In practice, anyone who’s watched recent ADCC trials knows that stalling is alive and well in no-gi too.
No-gi also benefits from crossover appeal. Wrestlers and MMA fighters can step in more easily, and if BJJ ever pushes for Olympic recognition, the argument tends to favor no-gi.
But the gi isn’t going anywhere.
Belts still matter in BJJ, and people value the sense of progression that comes with them. It’s addictive. It gives structure. It connects you to the history of the art.
Then there’s the technical depth. The gi adds layers—grips, controls, positions—that appeal to the more analytical side of training.
And perhaps most importantly, the gi is still the default language of BJJ worldwide.
I understand why some people prefer no-gi. The gi can be tough on your fingers. It can be frustrating when someone neutralizes your athleticism using your own clothing. And yes, there’s a lot of laundry.
But I don’t mind the laundry. I like having a few clean layers between me and my opponent. It feels more hygienic, and less like I’m stepping into a low-level germ warfare experiment every time I train.
In competition, both styles can be boring. The real issue isn’t the uniform — it’s the rule set.
No-gi will probably continue to dominate the professional scene. The gi will continue to dominate everyday training. And that’s fine.
We haven’t stopped training in the gi—we’ve just stopped paying attention to it.
(* If you’re new to BJJ: the gi is the traditional uniform, similar to judo, while no-gi typically involves a rash guard and shorts.)
Tai Chi has always felt like it’s very good for me — for the mind, the breath, the joints, for my overall functioning as a human being — but I’ve never really considered it a weight-loss tool. That’s despite the rash of frankly hilarious ads currently clogging up social media, bizarrely presenting Tai Chi as the secret to giving men over 50 a six-pack.
What’s even more galling is that if you actually look at the “Tai Chi” weight-loss exercises these products are trying to sell, they’re not Tai Chi at all. They’re what could most generously be described as basic warm-up movements — and the ripped old men demonstrating them are very obviously AI-generated.
Exercise of any kind is beneficial for health, but Tai Chi has never been particularly associated with weight loss. And now, inconveniently for the entire fitness industry, the idea of exercise as a reliable weight-loss tool has just taken a kick in the teeth courtesy of a recent New Scientist article, which argues that exercise, while very good for you, may not lead to weight loss as much as we’ve been led to believe.
According to the article, the basic problem is compensation. When you exercise more, your body simply burns less energy elsewhere to make up for it — and this effect can be even stronger if you’re also dieting.
As the article puts it:
“Exercise is tremendously beneficial for our health in many ways, but it’s not that effective when it comes to losing weight — and now we have the best evidence yet explaining why this is.
People who start to exercise more burn extra calories. Yet they don’t lose nearly as much weight as would be expected based on the extra calories burned. Now, an analysis of 14 trials in people has revealed that our bodies compensate by burning less energy for other things.” – New Scientist
Seen in that light, it makes far more sense to view Chinese martial arts — Tai Chi included — as tools for improving overall quality of life rather than as weight-loss hacks. That includes balance, coordination, joint health, breathing, mental focus, and, perhaps most importantly, social connection.
Feel the burn
If you’re practicing Tai Chi and want to improve your overall fitness while staying within the Chinese martial arts ecosystem, it’s worth pairing it with something more physically demanding. Styles like Choy Li Fut, Hung Gar, or Praying Mantis, for example, place much greater demands on strength and cardiovascular capacity.
Alternatively, you could lean into the more demanding side of Tai Chi itself — weapons forms, longer routines, or more continuous practice sessions can be surprisingly taxing.
Not all Tai Chi is the same. Most people today practice softer styles, where this advice applies most clearly. Some styles — Chen style in particular — include more vigorous stamping, jumping, and explosive movements, and may not require additional training alongside them.
Either way, common sense still applies. For a well-rounded approach to health, it helps to do something that makes you breathe harder than normal.
Tai Chi doesn’t need to promise abs, calorie burn, or dramatic body transformations to justify its existence. Its value lies elsewhere — in longevity, resilience, awareness, and the quiet accumulation of small benefits over time.
If weight loss happens alongside that, fine. But if it doesn’t, Tai Chi hasn’t failed. It’s simply doing what it has always done best: helping people move better, breathe better, and feel more at home in their bodies — no six-pack required.
Behind the gesture is a code about power, respect, and control
I always finish my Tai Chi class, which takes place in the UK and is taught by me, a British person with no connection to Chinese culture outside of martial arts, with a small Chinese-style salute.
Often called the “sun and moon” salute, it’s a traditional greeting in Chinese martial arts circles. It’s the same one you see Bruce Lee do to his student at the start of Enter the Dragon. But like most things in Chinese martial arts, it has both an obvious meaning and a hidden one. Of course, you don’t need to know the hidden meaning to use it.
In Chinese, the salute is called bàoquán lǐ, which roughly translates as “fist-wrapping rite.” Your right hand forms a fist — the “sun” — and your left hand presses flat against it — the “moon.” You stand straight, feet together. It’s accompanied by a short, respectful nod of the head rather than a deep formal bow, while maintaining eye contact.
Sometimes the fingers are folded instead. This seems to be a softer, less formal greeting (and it’s the one I usually use). This variation is often called gōngshǒu lǐ (“cupped hands greeting”) and is traditionally gendered — the closed fist is the right fist for men and the left fist for women.
It’s worth noting that this is far from the only hand position used for greeting across China’s long history, particularly within religious traditions.
Why do it?
The bàoquán lǐ isn’t a tradition added to Chinese martial arts — it’s a remnant of a moral code that existed before they were formally named.
At a basic level, the fist represents martial skill or strength, while the palm represents civility, restraint, and wisdom. The palm covering the fist symbolizes martial power governed by virtue or, put simply: I can fight, but I choose respect and control.
When I do it at the end of class, it’s quick and almost reflexive, sometimes even a little embarrassed. I don’t expect my students to do it back. It’s a brief gesture with a clear purpose: it marks the end of the session and acts as a quiet “thank you” for the work they’ve just done.
When I do it to my kung fu teacher, it carries a different weight. My teacher (who is not Chinese) still greets his own teacher (who was Chinese) with this salute every time they meet, and that tradition was passed on to me. I still greet my teacher this way whenever I see him. Even though it isn’t part of my culture, the meaning is clear when I do it.
In that sense, I suppose I’ve passed on a “light” version of the tradition to my own students by using the salute at the end of class. Even if they don’t return it, it’s something they now recognize. The tradition has softened over time, we don’t use it to greet each other, and honestly, I think it would feel strange if we did.
I’d describe my teacher’s period of training with his teacher as serious, and my own training as semi-serious by comparison. People in modern Tai Chi classes aren’t devoting their lives to this with the all-or-nothing commitment that might have been expected in 1860s China. For most people, it’s a hobby. A social activity. Ideally, people leave class feeling better than when they arrived, or at least like they’ve worked hard and learned something.
Hidden meanings
As with most things in a culture that has existed continuously for thousands of years, meanings tend to come in layers.
The sun and moon are obvious representations of yin and yang, shown here as equal forces held in harmony, suggesting balance rather than dominance.
There’s also a practical dimension. A level of formality in martial arts is useful. What we’re engaging in is potentially dangerous, and maintaining respectful ritual helps reinforce that fact.
(Incidentally, that’s one reason I don’t mind bowing in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training too. We routinely put our training partners in potentially life-changing situations, and a moment of ritual respect is a good reminder that what we’re doing carries real consequences.)
One of my favorite hidden interpretations, though, comes from Chinese history, specifically the Ming–Qing dynasty transition.
The Ming were the last ethnically Han Chinese ruling dynasty. The Qing were Manchu invaders from the north, and they were deeply unpopular with large parts of the population. Resistance movements emerged almost immediately.
The slogan “Overthrow the Qing, restore the Ming” (反清復明, Fǎn Qīng fù Míng) became a rallying cry for secret societies and rebel groups from the fall of the Ming in 1644 well into the early 20th century.
The bàoquán lǐ salute was reportedly adopted by some of these movements as a covert signal of allegiance. The closed fist was said to represent the character for sun (日), while the open palm represented moon (月). Together, these two characters form 明 (Míng), meaning “bright” or “to illuminate,” and also the name of the fallen dynasty.
Which means that, technically speaking, every time I’ve used this greeting, I’ve been quietly expressing support for the overthrow of the Qing dynasty.
But no, my Tai Chi class isn’t secretly plotting the restoration of a long-collapsed Chinese dynasty. But I do like the idea that a small, slightly awkward gesture at the end of a community hall class carries echoes of philosophy, rebellion, and restraint. Even if most of the time, it’s really just a polite way of saying: thanks for showing up — see you next week.
When I’m teaching my Friday class one of the things I quite often say is “don’t look down” – however, like most of the short, pithy statements you hear delivered by Tai Chi teachers… it’s not really true. Rather, it depends on the context of what you’re doing. Let me explain.
Yes, generally speaking, you want to be looking at the horizon when doing Tai Chi because you want to keep your head and neck aligned with your spine. Specifically with the head and neck we are talking about the posture principle of ‘suspending the head’. However, there are times in Tai Chi, where it is perfectly acceptable to look down – particularly on moves where the direction of the application is down towards to the ground.
The reason I say “don’t look down” a lot when teaching is that people learning a Tai Chi form have a general tendency to look down (me included!). Generally as we age our posture seems to become more slumped forward, perhaps because we sit down a lot in modern life, but also because scanning the horizon for signs of danger has long since stopped being an evolutionary priority. We also use computers, phones and devices all the time, and they lead to a general posture of our heads being tilted forward slightly. This can result in people doing the whole Tai Chi form while never looking up from the ground.
Extending the qi
In Tai Chi you want to have a feeling of a slight stretch all over the exterior of the body at all times – that’s really what following the posture principles of Tai Chi gives you – things like flattening the lower back, rounding the shoulders and suspending the head. This is known as ‘extending the qi’ all over the body. When you stand in a Zhan Zhuang posture you can feel this slight stretch all over the surface of the body that the posture generates – it’s subtle, but that’s what you’re looking for.
Suspending the head is part of that extension of the qi over the head, and you can keep that extended feeling even when you glance down. What you definitely don’t want to do is break the alignment of the spine and neck, which is what typically people do when looking at their phone, or their feet:
If you want a good fix for this then I find regular Zhang Zhuang (“post standing” or “standing like a tree”) practice is a good way to remedy this and retrain your head position on a subconscious level. Master Lam has a 10-day course on the subject.
The problem with looking down is that our head is rather heavy (between 2.3 and 5kg), and when you take your neck out of alignment with your spine your body automatically compensates for the extra weight that is pulling it forward (or you’d fall) and it does that by tensing some of its posture control muscles, particularly in the middle of the body, and that can interfere with the relaxation and freedom of movement we are looking for in Tai Chi. You also aren’t creating an optimal path for sending incoming forces to the ground or for sending jin up to the head. You are also not ‘extending qi’ to the head.
If you’re going to look down then you need to do it while keeping that slight stretch up the back of the neck and over the head.
Ward-off and martial applications
‘Ward off’ is another example of a posture where I do look down, although it’s only briefly. I look down because of the martial application I’m thinking of. My active hand in that posture is first the back hand, which I’m using to send my imaginary opponent to the floor. The front hand can then be used as a deflector, so after I’ve dispatched the first opponent to the floor, I then look up and deflect the second attack, which leads into the ‘roll back’ posture.
Here is the sequence:
In this sequence, the ‘ward off’ is the middle picture, and my focus is on my right hand pushing down from where it was in the previous picture, then in the next picture I refocus on the left hand deflecting, and getting ready to perform a ‘roll back’.
Here’s a much younger and hoplessly naive version of myself showing the marital application at around 19 seconds in this video:
As you can see, where you are looking in the Tai Chi form is dependent on what application you have in mind when doing the movement. So, while there are some useful maxims to remember in Tai Chi, such as ‘don’t look down’, it’s important that you know when it’s acceptable to bend the rules so that your Tai Chi becomes a living practice, with things done for a reason, not just blindly following the rules.
“An intangible and lively energy lifts the crown of the head.”
One of the things I often notice about my rolling partners in BJJ is that when they’re passing guard, they’re too easy to pick apart and attack because they let their spine bend by allowing their head to drop. As soon as this happens, I can attack their limbs easily because they’re suddenly not as strong. The spine is an integral part of the structure of our body, and when it’s not properly aligned, we’re weaker.
When we’re rolling in BJJ, and I’m in teacher mode, I’ll stop and point out when their head is down, and it’s often a kind of revelation to them. What I mean by “when their head is down” is that their head (and neck) is not in alignment with the rest of their spine. Once your head is aligned with your spine, you’re much stronger physically, without even trying. You’re also much more resistant to attacks from your partner. The game in BJJ then becomes about how you can break their spinal alignment while they try to keep theirs and break yours.
This takes you beyond the realm of just techniques and into the realm of principles. My BJJ book is certainly full of techniques, but I also tried to include a lot of text, especially in the intro pages for each section, about principles and strategy, too.
Having a background in tai chi, I think I’m more aware of spinal position than people who don’t have some sort of bodywork background before they start BJJ. In the 10 essentials by Yang Cheng-Fu as recorded by Chen Wei-Ming, it says, “An intangible and lively energy lifts the crown of the head. This refers to holding the head in vertical alignment in relationship to the body, with the spirit threaded to the top of the head. One must not use strength: using strength will stiffen the neck and inhibit the flow of qi and blood. One must have the conscious intent (yi) of an intangible, lively, and natural phenomenon. If not, then the vital energy (jingshen) will not be able to rise.”
Now there’s a lot of Chinese jargon in there that we can probably do without, and the way it’s written is not incredibly helpful. In BJJ, I usually just say “keep your head up” because that covers a multitude of sins, but what I’m really talking about is keeping your head in alignment with your spine.
If I’m teaching tai chi and I tell a student to keep their spine “vertical,” or lift “the crown of the head,” as it says in Yang Cheng-Fu’s recorded sayings, they almost immediately stiffen up straight like a soldier, holding their shoulders rigid and looking really uncomfortable. That’s not what you want in tai chi.
I think this stiffness is what Yang Cheng-Fu meant when he said in the next sentence of Chen Wei-Ming’s work: “One must not use strength: using strength will stiffen the neck and inhibit the flow of qi and blood.” A good tai chi spine is not a fixed position; it’s an alignment, and that means it’s an ever-changing position that adapts to your movement.
The general movement of your body in tai chi is always down. You are always relaxing and sinking down. That doesn’t mean you give up and slump on the floor like jelly; it means you just stop trying to hold yourself up all the time. You don’t really ‘do’ anything.
Relax the shoulders and just stand still for a bit in a wu chi posture. If you relax and allow it to happen, your head will naturally find the right spot where it sits in balance on top of your spine. The key is to stop trying to make it happen and let it happen. It wants to be there; you’ve just got to get yourself out of the way and allow it to happen. As it says in chapter 2 of the Tao Te Ching, “The sage acts by doing nothing.”
You’ll know when it feels right, and you can transfer that feeling to other situations: driving, working on a computer, and even, doing Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
How to time you strikes with your footwork, a video lesson
Sun Lu Tang, performing xing yi’s Zuan Quan.
Xing yi is a martial art I’ve got a lot of time for. The first thing I noticed about it was its approach to stepping and how different it was to other Chinese martial arts like tai chi, for example. In fact, the only other martial art I can think of that uses a similar type of stepping is yi quan, which is a derivative of xing yi, and perhaps Sun Style Tai Chi, which is obviously influenced by xing yi because it was the main martial art of the founder, Sun Lu Tang.*
When approaching xing yi for the first time, most people seem to be more interested in what’s going on in the body because it is an internal art. I think that, in a way, the label ‘internal’ is something of a blessing and a curse for xing yi because it leads to a lot of intellectualising about it, which is sometimes unnecessary. Before you need to start worrying about things like the internal workings of the body, I think you should be focusing on the footwork of xing yi, because that’s the key to getting the right feel for the art.
Xing yi stepping is different
It’s not like all Chinese martial arts don’t use stepping, (of course they do), but there’s something really nice and practical about the way xing yi uses stepping and striking in harmony*. If you look at a random xing yi link (its name for forms) then no step is wasted – something is happening on every step.
But it goes a bit deeper than than – the timing of what is happening is the thing to look for. The strikes combine with the stepping to put your mass into each strike, so rather than hitting people with just the weight of an arm, you’re hitting them with your whole body weight behind the arm.
I made a video about the timing of xing yi steps and strikes before and I’ve talked about xing yi stepping basics before, but a viewer of one of my YouTube channels, contacted me recently asking to know more about it, so I thought I’d make another video.
So, here it is – I’m demonstrating some standard ‘jab, cross, hook’ strikes on some pads first. There’s nothing special about this, then I look at how it would change if you were going to adopt the xing yi footwork. I show this with the weight staying on the back leg first, then I show how you’d do it with a palm strike and the weight on the front leg – in the way you do it with Bear (Xiong Xing). And then I show some xing yi movements in a linking form, where the steps and the striking are using the same timing. This is a mix of elements and animals.
Is there anything ‘internal’ in this? No, it’s just the mechanics of stepping and striking done together in the general way xing yi uses them. However, my controversial opinion (sorry, I’m trying not to get into arguments these days) is that you need to get this down first before you start with the more subtle internal stuff.**
* Yes, I’m sure there are other Chinese martial arts that use this sort of stepping sometimes – talking in generalities helps make a point, but it is rarely accurate.
** Xing yi is a big art, what I’m talking about is a feature of Hebei Xing Yi – other styles may vary and not use the same sort of footwork. I’m not attacking the way you do XY or the way your Sifu taught you.
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